


queen of the day

by questionably_fortunate_bamboo



Series: jonsa season 7 summer challenge [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/M, Jonsa S7 Summer Challenge, Jonsa Summer Challenge, the crown au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 09:39:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11483709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/questionably_fortunate_bamboo/pseuds/questionably_fortunate_bamboo
Summary: Sansa is the queen of the day, Jon will be the king of the night.(written for day two of the jonsa s7 summer challenge - celebration)





	queen of the day

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo I hope you guys enjoy this! It was looooosely inspired by the Crown, which is an amazing show on Netflix. I hope you guys enjoy this!

His wife is his queen, and his queen is his wife.

Jon will never get used to that.

Sansa looks beautiful in her white gown and silver jewelry. Part of Jon wants to frame her like that, freeze her into a perfect portrait, carve her into a marble statue. The other part wants to ravish her, tear apart that pretty dress, make her scream his name so the whole palace can hear. His fingers clench and unclench, digging into his palm and leaving irritated marks.

“You must be so proud of her,” says Robb. He has been invited to the celebration, but not the coronation itself. People steal glances and mutter in low voices as they walk past him.  _Affair. Abdication._  It’s still a fresh wound on the royal family’s pride.

“How’s Margaery?” Jon asks, desperate to change the subject.

“She’s fine. Scotland’s a bit cold for her, but it’s not as though we can go anywhere else.” Of course he’s still bitter. He’s the Duke of the Gift, a cold, mountainous region of Scotland. It’s no place for a woman as lively and flowery as Margaery Tyrell, the common American girl who made him give up the throne.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t invite her. I would’ve liked to meet her,” says Jon.

“It’s not your fault. Not Sansa’s, either. Mother called me personally to tell me that Margaery wouldn’t be allowed to come.”

Queen Catelyn, the Queen Mother, is standing over by a window with the Duke and Duchess of Dragonstone. She’s still on edge, glancing over at Sansa every few seconds. The iron grip she has on her children is quickly dissolving, and this event only goes to prove it.

Sansa is with Shireen and Myrcella Baratheon, two of her maids of honor. A glass of champagne is held between her gloved fingers. They smile as the Duchess of Bear Island comes over to offer her congratulations.

“Have you spoken with Arya and Bran?” asks Jon.

“Yes, and Rickon too.” Robb takes a sip of wine, wincing at the flavor. “They’re desperate to escape. Mother won’t let them out of her sight, of course, but Margaery and I would be happy to host them. We’ve got plenty of woods for them to run around in.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Jon says. His brothers and sister in law have the same free spirit as Robb.

_And so did Sansa, but it was stripped away when the fate of the monarchy was nailed to her back._

“Excuse me for a minute,” he says, leaving Robb to brood in the corner while he approaches his wife. She’s still talking with Myrcella, Shireen, and Duchess Lyanna. Jon wraps his hand around her arm and leans over so his beard brushes against her ear.

 _“Back hallway,”_  he whispers. Her jaw clenches.

“Are you an idiot?”

“I need to talk to you.” Suppressing a look of annoyance, Sansa turns to her ladies.

“Shireen, do you remember what we planned? If you see my mother looking for me-”

“I should get to you before she does,” says Shireen, nodding dutifully. Jon leads Sansa out of the crowded hall, into a dimly lit, unused passageway.

Once they’re alone, he pins her against the wall and presses hot, open mouthed kisses along her neck. A high-pitched moan spills from her mouth, and she bites down hard on her lower lip. His hands tangle in her skirts, only to be lost in the mess of fabric that constitutes her gown.

“Jon, stop it,” she says, “you’ll leave a mark.” He growls and seals his lips to hers. Sansa’s always been too proper for this. She hardly lets him hold her hand in public, let alone offer even the most formal of affections.

“I want you.” His cock is hard, but there are ten layers of white satin between them, and it would be more than unseemly to come all over her coronation gown. Jon kisses her again to hide the frustration on his lips, but it’s too late.

“What’s wrong?” She pulls his face away. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s a lie,” she says. “I’m not stupid. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“All of this,” says Jon. “All of this is wrong. We were going to have a good life, away from all the politics and people who want to manipulate you. Do you remember what we planned? To go live up in Scotland, have parties with our friends, take care of your little siblings. That future is gone, Sansa, and I don’t know what to hope for.”

“I never asked for any of this, Jon,” she hisses, “and I’m not going to be their perfect poster-child queen. But I have a responsibility towards my  _family_ and my  _country_. We’ll have to make do.”

He wants to slam his fist into the wall. “I don’t want to make do, I want to _live.”_

“I’ll find a way!” Her voice rises dangerously. “Britain is not a person, Jon. I can’t have a bloody affair with it. You don’t have to be jealous of a country!”

His face twists into a silent snarl. Sansa suddenly realizes what his true anger is coming from.

“Or are you just afraid that I’m going to overpower you? That I’ll dominate you in everything?” She huffs indignantly.

“I don’t want you to be my queen, I want you to be my wife.” Jon’s chest is still heaving.

Sansa’s eyes are a river, flowing from dark with lust, to light with pride. Her neck straightens, and a sly confidence fills her body.

“I’m going to be both,” she says, leaning in to catch his lips in a rough kiss. “I’ll be a queen in the day. I’ll shake hands, sign papers, and look pretty. And you’ll be my perfect prince.”

Sansa bites down on his lower lip, and he tastes the metallic tang of blood.

“A perfect prince?” he questions, raising an eyebrow. She nods.

“But at night, you’re a king. And kings can do whatever the fuck they please.” It makes him grin to hear her swear. “So if my king wants to fuck me when we retire for the evening, he can do just that. Perfect  _princesses_  never argue.”

Their hands are rough, their kisses are hard, and he knows that they’ll be far from gentle with each other when they’ve left the celebration. Frustration makes them desperate for feeling.

“What does my king command?” asks Sansa.

“I want to see you laid out on my bed tonight. Leave your hair down, and you’d better not be in any clothes,” he murmurs. “And wear one of your tiaras.”

“My tiaras aren’t exactly expendable,” she says, trying to hide a grin.

“Perfect princesses don’t argue.” His voice comes out rougher than he intended. Before he can apologize, light footsteps approach, and they break apart quickly.

“Your mother’s looking for you,” says Shireen. “I told her you were in the bathroom, so you’ve got a few minutes before she realizes you’re not there. “

“Thank you, Shireen, I’ll be there in a minute.”

Jon kisses Sansa’s forehead. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, for what I said-”

“You said a lot, my love,” she laughs, and leans forward to place a chaste kiss on his cheek. “I expect to hear more tonight.”

Jon rejoins the celebrations in a dazed trance. Sansa is with the Duchess of the Iron Islands, smiling and making conversation as if she had never faltered from her dainty facade.

“Should I ask what you were doing with my sister in an unused hallway for fifteen minutes?” Robb appears next to him, holding a champagne flute with an amused grin on his face.

“You probably shouldn’t,” says Jon.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, you snazzy kiddos, wanna send me prompts? I'm on Tumblr @wintermellons, or you can just comment. Thanks for reading, you brilliant beauties.


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